'Why did you let me live?'

The question had been asked softly, as Vyzhaldi speech went. Nevertheless, it filled the cavernous chamber, though it did not echo once.

Mother Wound's Scorn looked up at his progenitor, multifaceted eyes shining with confused reproach. The red-shelled Vyzhaldi was tense, ready to fight or run at the first sign on need, although his hands hung at his sides, empty, not even clenched into fists.

For once, his curiosity had got the better of his spite and rage. He was as surprised as his kindred would've been if they'd known him, he was sure.

Mother Wound did not answer - nothing new under the stars. Instead, one of her bodyguards stepped forward, putting a few steps between himself and his fellows, who were lining the walls in their thousands.

'So shameless,' the Motherguard, a scarred male with a blue shell so pale it was almost white, hissed. 'It is not enough that you are the only deviant to be spared in the history of the Kratocracy - now you're whining about it, too.'

Scorn turned to face him, deliberately slowly. Resting on his muscular chest, the Ideal Mirror hung on a rough necklace. Then, mandibles slowly unclenching, he began chuckling.

At first, only the tips of his mandibles touched with a clicking sound, like a Terran gunshot. Then, as Scorn's chortle became a laugh, his mandibles began sounding like an artillery barrage.

Laugh dying down, Scorn adjusted the Mirror, so the Motherguard could see his outraged grimace in the circular, flawless surface. 'What is your name.'

'I am called Void Seeping.' The other male stood up straighter. 'Because despair seeps into my foes' bones like the cold of the void of space.'

Scorn lowered his head to one side, as if trying to listen more closely. 'Strange,' he muttered. 'You said... something, but all I heard was "one of the Motherguard".' His eyes moved across the room, taking in the fifty-six hundred Motherguard. 'Do you know why that is? Because you will only ever be remembered as a group, and even then, as a footnote. The defenders Mother Wound never needed, hanging on her coattails when you're not cowering under her skirts.'

Though his body was quivering with rage, Void's voice was level. 'Mock all you want, weakling. Everyone knows that, without that toy hanging on your neck, you would be too scared to even contemplate raising your eyes to the least of us.'

'So, you admit you are jealous of me? That you covet...' Scorn rubbed the Mirror with a fingertip. 'This?'

Void scoffed. 'As if I could want a crutch for my power. My body is not so defective it can't grow stronger, unlike those of some I could mention.'

'I would've brought protection, had I known you'd dazzle me with your wit,' Scorn deadpanned at Void's sneer. 'Let me turn that question around for you: if you lacked your ability to grow stronger, and an insurmountable enemy was staring you down, would you be bold?'

'A Vyzhaldi's courage has nothing to do with their strength!' Void snapped. 'A true Kratocrat does not become fiercer because their power grows.'

'They sure turn stupider, though,' Scorn remarked, enjoying how easy his kinsman was to rile up. 'What should I do, apologise for what I was not born with? It hardly seemed to work the last few million times I tried it with my pursuers.'

'You should roll over and die,' Void answered. 'Just like you should've done when the first hunter caught up.'

'Then your sham of a goddess, my mother, should've killed me when I sprung from her namesake.' Scorn crossed his arms. 'I am curious why she didn't which is why I asked. And while we speak, you can hold your tongue. Stop blustering.'

'Bluste-?!'

'You are jealous,' Scorn said softly. 'Because I am mightier than you, and can increase my might without the need to fight. And I do it using something I earned, as a spoil of war, not a quirk of genetics.'

At that, Void launched himself at Scorn, moving four hundred-eighty times faster than light. Thanks to the many trials he had overcome over his forty-four million years of life, Void was so durable every Voidmaw in creation could've pounced on him without leaving a mark. In fact, there was little difference between his fortitude, and that of his Archetype: damaging either would've significantly altered creation. Void's endurance let him weather the attacks of most beings, until he could ramp up enough to destroy him.

Scorn was not most beings.

First, he used the Mirror to make reality reflect his mind, causing a suit of polished armour to appear around him.

Void's fists smashed against his helmet, pauldrons and chestplate, each landing with enough force to turn Earth to steaming dust. Void's strength and speed jumped by orders of magnitude with every fruitless attack upon the inviolable armour, until the blows launched every Planck instant would've obliterated all matter in the universe.

Scorn carelessly leaned backwards, baring his gorget to give Void another target. The other Vyzhaldi roared in outraged frustration - then the force of his attacks was turned against him.

At first, two attacks landed, against his face and chest, both twice as strong as his own. Then, four, with quadruple the power. Eight, sixten, thirty-two...

The force of the reflected blows grew even as it became denser, more concentrated. Void was unimpressed.

'I am not strong enough to harm myself,' he told Scorn, twitching at the other's nod. 'Yet. And mere kinetic energy is not enough to break one such as me.'

'The fact you mistake taunts for warning shots reinforces your usefulnness even better than your attempt to kill me.'

Void staggered back as replicas of him appeared put of nowhere, circling and gripping him, holding him still as their strength grew at the same pace as his own.

Scorn then turned his attention outwards, looking for the appropriate tools to mirror. He found them quickly: the nonexistence of beings removed from creation, which he reflected upon Void Seeping, and the timelessness of beings beyond the multiverse's fifth layer.

The nature of his attack mirrored both, obliterating Void before he could either react or grow more durable, for it began and ended in no time at all.

Dismissing the dead Motherguard's clones, Scorn idly nodded at the remaining Vyzhaldi. 'Next?'

'You think we don't know why you are here?' A brown-shelled Motherguard looked at him, pity for his confidence in his alleged dussembling plain in her golden eyes. 'Why you did what you did?'

'Those questions are so broad you could throw a planet through them,' Scorn said. 'Speak plainly.'

'You facilitated the Moment of Unity - using that damned device - so that you would be welcomed back into the fold of the Kratocracy, despite your defects.' Her lower hands on her hips, she spat. 'A second exception to what majes us us, also made because of you. Wherever you rear your ugly head, tradition crumbles.'

'I...helped save creation so that I could return home? How dare I!' Scorn exclaimed sarcastically. 'Be serious. You must all be Breakers, because I swear I'm surrounded by frothing idiots. Wipe your drool off the floor and listen. Even if that were true, why would it be so vile? People have helped others for far worse reasons.'

' "If that were true"?' she repeated skeptically.

'You think I sought to do something incredible, gain everyone's approval, to stop being an exile? No longer being hunted would've been enough for me.' Scarlet, translucent lids slid halfway over Scorn's eyes. 'Besides, do you honestly think I love the "civilisation" that has hounded me since birth enough to come back? What do you believe appeals to me here, exactly?'

'What doesn't? You've never had anything.' She held up a hand, ticking off fingers. 'A life among your kindred. An estate and mates of your choosing. A place on the Kratocratic Council, even, perhaps...' She trailed off at Scorn's derisive sniggering. 'What amuses you?'

'Many things, but right now?' His lids pulled back. 'Void...what's your name, female? By your shell, I suspect your Woundsire was hit by a rock. I shall call you Gravel.'

She bristled. 'I am Landslide Down The Hills Of-'

'Listen, Gravel,' Scorn cut her off. 'I do not want to live among you. I hate you all. I neither need nor want a home, or a mate between my claspers.' Scorn considered Landslide doubtfully. 'I'd say females like you make me want to mount males, but there's no Vyzhaldi appealing enough to make me forget my youth.' He leered. 'There are many aliens with beautiful forms and even more gorgeous minds, though. I have had several.'

Scorn laughed at the Motherguard's dumbstruck expression. 'Oh, don't freeze up. I've never spread my essence thoughtlessly, and I don't plan to. As for...getting into politics? Seriously? I would hate to meet the Scorn who lives in your imagination. He sounds like a bureaucrat in heat.'

Turning his back on Landslide, Scorn flicked a hand over his shoulder as he looked back up at Mother Wound. 'If you must know, I shall endeavour to deliver you from ignorance. I helped save creation because I like existing. I want to live as I see fit, able to carve my own path, not spend every hundredth of a nanosecond looking over my shoulder for upjumped hatchlings looking to impress their mother in the sky.'

Landslide looked ready to try and rip Scorn apart, not caring that he was still wearing his armour, when what many thought impossible happened.

'Leave us,' Mother Wound said. 'I will speak with my son alone, lest you raise his ire further, and face oblivion.' She gestured at the doors with a hand almost as big as the average Vyzhaldi. 'Go, my children. Thank you for your service.'

Stunned, the Motherguard set off haltingly, many still sneaking disbelieving glances at their ancestor. None said anything. Even those Motherguards who had been old when their order had been founded had never believed Mother Wound would ever speak again, or that she even could.

For his part, Scorn found his mother's voice to be a letdown. Oh, it was impressive enough, in the way natural disasters were. Without devices to trabslate and modulate, a Vyzhaldi's speech would've sounded like a deep, continuous, loud enough to shatter a human's eardrums even as it turned their teeth to powder; Mother Wound's voice was what he had expected from a Vyzhaldi of her size.

But he had thought there would be... more. Mother Wound wasn't simply a big Kratocrat. She was the living goddess of the realm, who only intervened to steer the ship of state back on course when the squabbles she stood above threatened to divert or sink it. Scorn had thought that, maybe, there would be flashes of light and flame accompanying her merest utterance, not...

Wound looked down at her son, lowering and opening a hand. With a wary, warning look, he stepped onto it, allowing his mother to lift him to eye level. Her mandibles were parted, allowing him to see what, judging by the glimmer in her eyes, must've been a smile.

'They can still see and hear us,' she said, referring to the Motherguards doubtlessly following the broadcast outside the chamber. 'And are listening even more intently than the rest of your kindred, if you can believe it.'

Had that been a joke? Was Wound joking? Could she?

'Now,' she continued. 'Why don't you tell our family how you acquired that marvelous mirror?' Wound leaned closer, as if poised to whisper to him, like they weren't on intergalactic holovision. 'Should I tell you about the history you yearn to know before, you might very well lie about your past.'

'And you won't change the "history" based on what I tell you?' Scorn retorted. 'As you wish. I care naught about your motives, and even less about what your hanger-ons think.'

* * *

I survived my first few million greater cycles through - what seemed at the time - blind luck. With every rotation Zhal completed around its star, I could not help but wonder: how come every Vyzhaldi who pursued me met a miserable end, given everything I had been told in my first moments of life?

According to the mother whose blood I had sprung from - for had she not laid the foundation of our philosophy? - I did not deserve to live, for my existence, bereft of the ability to grow stronger through struggle, would have resulted in contempt and hatred from my own kind, or even worse, pity. Such things had no place in the hearts of Vyzhaldi who had to get stronger, as both individuals and a civilisation. We have to get stronger. Why, I've never been told.

Wound did not speak to me, of course. Her guards did. In the same breath I was informed of my worthlessness, I was also told I had been been spared, chosen to be exiled. The first defective Vyzhaldi to receive such mercy in the history of the Kratocracy. And, if I understand you at all, I expect I was the last, as well.

Thank you for the birthday gift. It left me stewing during the headstart you gave me.

Bewildered hatchling that I was, I equated the fact I deserved to die with my flaws. As such, surely the accepted Vyzhaldi who hunted me were perfect?

But if they were perfect, how come they all died or had to retreat, sometimes even before they laid eyes on me?

At first, like I said, I attributed it to chance, though I will admit self-loathing played a role. So what if I lured them to this dangerous ruin or disaster area, or allied with or worked as a mercenary for that Lesser Power, getting my hands on weapons that could destroy even Kratocrats beyond healing? Clearly, it was the product of happenstance.

After all, were I to fight one of them in an empty room, with no equipment, I would die. But as I grew older, and the pain of the beatings that nearly killed me became a youth's memory, I looked inwards, and thought: why should I hate and look down on myself?

If I managed to overcome my enemies through external means, be they environmental hazards or alliances, did that simply not mean I was resourceful, and they not so perfect, in the end? One does not have to be dull or overconfident for their strength to be overcome by a weakling's cunning, though it certainly helps said weakling.

I suppose I must give credit where is due; the Kratocratic poison is certainly pervasive, if it can even persist in the mind of an outcast like myself. It is not a particularly complex ideology, nor an appealing one, least of all to me, but enough violence can make it stick, for a while.

But I digress. I am sure everyone following this broadcast has heard my words from other mouths, and dismissed them with the same contempt with which they are sneering now. I have not shared this to sway your opinions. I merely wanted to vent. Perhaps now, you know a fraction of how it feels to hear irritating nonsense, when you are unable to escape.

You asked me about the Ideal Mirror. I did not find it in the Realm of Forms, but in the clammy grasp of the Flesh That Flays.

I will admit: I have not heard from the Flesh in thousands of greater cycles...hmm? It's a Lesser Power now? I suppose it fits...the damn thing is the size of a galaxy supercluster, and far heavier. But I wasn't aware we named single beings Powers nowadays, even if their bodies are immense.

That is what I get for being out of the loop. I always knew I should've been born stronger. I don't know what was wrong with me, honestly.

" Whining", am I? I thank whatever viewer said that. I will make sure to meet you after this is over. I would like to see you being more cheerful in my place. Every Breaker baying for blood, every Balancer who wanted to destroy me as the stain on society I was, even removed from it, every Builder who hoped to end my struggle, out of kindness...these were my friends growing up.

But enough of my idyllic past. I would not want to make you poor, oppressed souls jealous. Instead, I will regale you with the tale of how I became mightier than the Kratocracy combined, thanks to myself, not an accident of birth.

The Flesh That Flays constantly changes shape, colour and texture, but most of the time, it appears as a grey, amorphous expanse, the tips of its tentacles and edges of its core tinged with every colour in the universe, and many from beyond.

I did not meet it by choice. When I happened across it, I hadn't even heard of its legend. People were always reluctant to tell me more than that it was ghastly, and dangerous.

No, in fact, the Flesh snuck up on me. It sounds absurd, doesn't it? A mass of meat the size of a significant fraction of the universe, bypassing my senses? Did I not even notice the gravity it generates?

Yet it did. The Flesh copies the traits of anything whose essence it manages to consume - a hair, a cog, a metaphysical scrap, anything - and uses said stolen power as it wishes. It can even create copies of those it has taken from, ad infinitum. These simulacra are just as powerful as the originals, though utterly subservient to the Flesh's whims, acting as its limbs, eyes and ears.

Furthermore, it can control how its size and mass affect the cosmos - an inherent ability, rather than a copied one. It became as small as me, at one point, while not drawing anything to it, despite being far heavier than any galaxy.

Let me tell you something. for I know you have sought to bring the Flesh to heel or ward it away in the past. It told me as much. The Flesh That Flays does not seek violence. Perhaps it seeks power, but if it does, its purpose is unknowable to me. The request it made to me before we parted ways proves that.

No. The Flesh only takes the essence it is given, or that of those who attack it. When I asked it why, if not for battle, it told me that "we need to hold life within ourselves more than we want to, though we love doing so."

I was rather bemused at that, and told it many of its acquisitions did not come from anything alive. The Flesh laughed, and told me "life" should not be pronounced so quietly.

It was by using such a copied power that it managed to surprise me.

'What being can move this stealthily while having such a great stature?' I asked after it revealed itself, curling around me. 'I have never heard of the like.'

'That is the point, son,' the Flesh replied. I rankled at this strange creature addressing me with such familiarity, but urged it to go on. 'The Quietude are a silent people.'

This Quietude, it told me, was a collective of beings, or a single, multifaceted one - these distinctions are mine, as the Flesh sees little difference - that lived in the depth of the Ultimate Void that is the Realm of Forms. Aside from being able to evade the senses of most beings, the Quietude blankets everything it perceives with a strange power that renders almost all unnatural abilities useless. It can even fill the macrocosm with its influence, the Flesh said.

Nodding, I faced the titanic creature - so to speak. 'Why did you stop me? Was I trespassing in your territory?' I wanted no quarrel with it, not because I was afraid, but because I was appalled by the thought of dying while my species looked down on me.

Two tentacle tips swayed, four more touching in what I took to be a soothing gesture, as calming as anything bigger than most galaxies and covered in fanged suckers can be. 'Fear no malice. We wish to speak. It is a lonely existence, to be avoided when you are misunderstood, and approached only to be destroyed.'

I grunted in agreement. On the one hand, I was glad to survive another cycle, perhaps find a way to redeem myself. On the other, I did not want to pour my heart out to this being. Even if it was sincere, it might start laughing at me, or pitying me, and neither would help either of us.

Instead, I sat down, and told it of my travels, a favour it returned. You see, back then, I thought that maybe, if I did something impressive enough, I would be welcomed back into my mother's loving arms. I even wanted to return. As if killing Vyzhaldi through trickery would ever be forgiven!

The Flesh perked up at that, quite literally, sharing with me a dilemma: an unbreakable, immovable artifact, wedged into the centre of its body like a small but persistent tumour.

The Flesh remembered a pale, black-robed figure hurling down the Ideal Mirror at it like a comet. After failing to crack it and get a few shards, the Flesh had turned the rest of its powers to the Mirror's removal, to no avail.

Besides reflecting the Flesh's attempts back at it, the Mirror also filled the Flesh's mind with the thoughts, feelings and sensations that had run through the mind of every being it had ever taken from. Though this mental assault would've killed most species decillions of times over, the Flesh's mind was infinitely deeper and stronger than that of most beings. Even so, this predicament was quite vexing, because the Mirror neither stopped nor left.

I cut off what I saw as complaining, since, if the Flesh was unable to get rid of the mirror, I stood no chance. Except, it insisted, I did.

'I wager it might be trying to bond with me,' the Flesh said. 'But it cannot. I had never thought this possible, as my substance can take in even nothingness. I can only guess that, maybe, I am not the one it is fated to bond with, though it does not know.'

'Fated?' I repeated coldly. 'My only fate is to die and be forgotten. So I have been told.'

'And yet, you persist. Do you really believe 'tis fate, then?'

I squared my shoulders. 'I cannot simply give up! Even if my remains are burned to ash and my history consigned to oblivion, I will make them accept me before the end!'

'LIFE finds a way,' the Flesh said, sounding like it was speaking a mantra.

'Life cares not what way it finds,' I countered. 'I want to live well, if possible. Even briefly.'

'And that,' it held up a tentacle, 'is exactly what I'm offering you the chance to do, son.'

It explained, at length, its plan to remove the Ideal Mirror. With nothing better to do, and knowing potential when I saw it, I acquiesced.

The Flesh That Flays parted before my eyes, allowing me to reach the Mirror. It was half-buried in dark purple, grey-veined meat, resembling a projectile that had found its aim, which, in a way, it was.

'How do we know it can't reflect both of our...?' I trailed off, unsure what word could have properly encapsulated the experiences.

'We know it can, Mother Wound's Scorn,' the Flesh replied, sounding distant, despite the fact I was close to its core. I noticed that was the first time it had used my first name. 'But we must hope that, even if it does, our scheme will succeed.'

Incensed at being called a schemer, I grabbed the Mirror with all four hands, noting that neither gore nor ichor stuck to its polished surface, instead sliding off, despite the Mirror being dry and rough to the touch, like palming a blade.

I pulled with all my strength, enough to vapourise any rocky planet and scatter ice giants far beyond the point the point gravity could pull them back together. The Mirror did not budge.

And yet, what could I do? Give up? I didn't even care about helping the Flesh that much, truly. But I could not bear failing in something I had chosen for myself.

The Mirror shone at that thought, illuminated by some inner, colourless light. Somehow, it had picked up my resentment for the way I had failed my kind by being born.

The Mirror's power drowned out the Flesh's form and voice alike, cutting me off from the universe, and showed me my true self - and the Kratocracy's. I yearn to reward and punish it for the latter, but it cannot be coerced or damaged.

For what felt like forever, I drowned in disgusted hatred, as I relived every moment my hunters had spent since setting off to the end of their pursuit, be that in death or retreat.

Oh, yes, I died - mentally. Trillions of times. I do not honestly remember if that many Vyzhaldi have ever been after me. Perhaps the Mirror repeated certain thought streams; it is hard to tell. But it matters not.

I saw the true face of your children, Mother Wound. Learned that, whether they revelled in cruelty, praised apathy as a virtue or cowered behind good intentions, they hated me.

Some questioned it, true enough. On my way here, I spoke to a Wings On His Words, who, I understand, ranks highly in the Builder School. He told me of his and his fellows' unsuccessful attempts to stop the persecution of my ilk. It is an admirable endeavour, though, seeing what I have, almost certainly a doomed one.

Yet, do you know what Wings has in common with those Vyzhaldi he otherwise only resembles in terms of species? Revulsion.

At the sight of me. At the idea of me. It is not voluntary, I know. He does not hate me, as a person. I do not know whether it is his instincts or his upbringing that makes him clench his fists and mandibles whenever he thinks of me, and I care even less. The point is that I make his shell crawl, and leave him craving to to crush my head between his hands and bury his claws in my heart. He does not heed this urge, and for that, I admire him.

What I do not admire is the fact said urge exists at all. Do you enjoy what you've made of your spawn, Wound? This slaughterhouse of a society? Does this sham amuse you?

No, you say? You will have to explain that to me. I will give you all the time you need, before I leave again, for the second and last time.

The Mirror's revelations dismayed and pleased me in equal measure. I had spent so much time yearning for the affection of bigots...but I no longer had to, now that I knew them for what they were. Nevertheless, I cringed at myself. How naïve, how desperate, had I been to want to belong to...that?

I, a Vyzhaldi, who had no need for rest or sustenance, powerful beyond the imaginations of most species! There are civilisations who worship gods weaker than me!

It is a treacherous thing, the need to belong. It can madden and lay low the mightiest, even if they are stronger or more virtuous than the herd they have been cut off from.

I suspect this desire runs in our blood to make us stick together, make us easier to control. I see your hand at work, Wound...

I told the Flesh as much, the creature hearing the thoughts on my beleaguered mind's surface. I never let go of the Mirror, it told me, with no small amount of admiration, even as I snarled and roared in the face of the Vyzhaldi.

Perhaps the Mirror had seen enough of me, or the Flesh finally broke through, using some previously-unseen combination of powers. The being argued the former.

'You live on, you want to live, though you have only ever known hardship. And, when you set a goal for yourself, you neither halt nor falter, even when confronted with the worst of our people's beliefs. Even when said goal is revealed to be pointless-'

' "Our" people?' I cut off its rambling, unashamed of my revulsion at being compared to this overgrown chimera.

'Indeed,' it answered, not missing a beat. 'We hold many Vyzhaldi within ourselves...'

By that point, I was holding the Mirror in my hands. Even after being dislodged from the Flesh's guts, it was still unmarred by filth. I wondered if that was a conscious decision by it (if the thing can even be said to think and reason as we do), or if it was simply its nature to reflect anything attempting to foul or damage it.

The second seemed unlikely: after all, the Mirror hadn't sent the force of my attempts to rip it out back at me. Instead, it had shown me what I needed to know. Even so, I was, and still am, uncomfortable at the thought of this limitless weapon being able to choose for itself, but unable or unwilling to communicate why.

* * *

Mother Wound's Scorn lifted his dark glare from his namesake's arm to her face. His story over, he had drifted off, brooding, for three hundredths of a nanosecond. Then, he had decided moping would serve no purpose, help no one.

If he was to hunch over, feeling sorry for himself, he certainly didn't want to do it while eight hundred-forty octillion Kratocrats watched him in real time.

'Are you surprised?' he asked disdainfully, staring straight into Mother Wound's eyes. 'Your toy soldiers would've ended up as the Flesh's playthings or food, I am sure. It has no more to learn from us. And even if they didn't? I can't see them facing the Mirror and triumphing. They are not ready for the truth. If they were, your dollhouse of an empire wouldn't exist.'

'And what truth is that, my son?' Wound asked, sounding genuinely curious. 'That the Vyzhaldi are callous? There is not a hatchling who does not know this, from hatching to death.'

Scorn's smile, as far as Vyzhaldi facial expressions went - in this case, a circular mouth, like a lamprey's but toothless, surrounded by parted mandibles, thick and serrated, and a red so dark they were almost black - was cheerful, almost as if he had been waiting for such a question. 'What truth? What about the truth that, no matter how resourceful a Vyzhaldi is, they will always be despised by those with genetic luck? The truth of contempt? How it really feels to be marginalised, a victim, powerless to fight back most of the time? After all...'

The red Vyzhaldi laughed, throwing his head back - a sound as forced as the gesture, and less joyful. He thrust his right arms out, fingers curled as if poised to rip a throat out. 'Have they ever felt overwhelmed? I don't mean in the glorified playfighting you stage. Have they ever been on the backfoot against anyone but a fellow Vyzhaldi? And even then...' His mandibles clacked, grinding together. 'Were they without technology? Without allies close behind, to watch their back?'

Scorn waited for all of a picosecond, having asked his questions. A trillionth of a second having later, he had taken in the reactions of the Vyzhaldi on the screens scattered across the room. 'Silence, too, is an answer.'

To his surprise, Mother Wound giggled. It felt unnatural, coming from a being of her literal and metaphysical stature, but the short-lived, high-pitched - compared to her usual booming voice - was unmistakable. 'My son, you are far from the first to pose such questions to us in anger. However...' Her eyes were almost entirely covered by silver lids, and Scorn stifled a hiss at the similarity to his earlier expression. 'You might well be the last.'

Lowering her arm to the floor and retracting it, Scorn having jumped off halfway through the motion, Mother Wound adjusted her footing, then sat down on the floor, legs crossed. Her long, ribbed tail curled under her like a coiled snake, resulting in an impromptu seat.

Scorn, arms crossed, hovered a few dozen metres away from her, refusing to avoid her eyes, even if he had to fly.

Wound allowed herself a small smile at his stubborn pride, behind her mandibles.

Then, she began speaking.

'You asked why I, specifically, let you live, my "Scorn". Have you ever considered that, since you received your name from your Kin, it does not reflect my view of-'

Scorn cut her off with a harsh laugh. 'Don't try to brush it off, you old broodmare. You devised the philosophy your spawn follow, and never said anything, about it or me. To me. I know you can speak to every Vyzhaldi, mind to mind!'

'And were I to speak with my own mouth, the whole Kratocracy would bend over backwards, with every word.'

'Oh, you are right. It would be cruel to unduly influence your worshippers.' Scorn spat the last word. 'Don't waste your breath. I am still here only because you said you would share the Kratocracy's history with me.'

Doubtlessly, it would be skewed to show Wound and her lackeys in the best possible light, but that was nothing new to Scorn. The few Vyzhaldi who'd deigned to speak to him had been thoroughly indoctrinated, and most aliens he had spoken about his species with had been too terrified, too misinformed or too (and he was well aware how ridiculous that sounded, coming from him) full of hatred for the Vyzhaldi to be credible sources.

Bias. Bias, born of Kratocratic propaganda, or the trauma that often followed their predations.

But it did not matter. If Wound spun a yarn, wasting his time to cover her behind, he would just have another grudge to nurse, following his departure.

Scorn hadn't yet decided whether he would ever be able and willing to settle all his grudges. The Mirror gave him the power, yes - and it was a good thing the Vyzhaldi immunity to esoteric effects was flexible enough to allow beneficial ones, such as increased strength -, but he had grown sick of bloodshed millions of years ago.

He did not know if he had the stomach for genocide. He had always wanted to slaughter the Kratocracy to the last hatchling, stare into the little martinet's eyes before he blasted them to steam, but...that had been tempered.

Scorn had killed enough Vyzhaldi, and seen enough allies of convenience die fighting alongside him, to drown star clusters in blood.

Shaking off the thoughts of old, unmarked graves and buried ash piles, Scorn looked at his mother, waiting for her to start.

And, for the first time in history, Mother Wound shared the story of her life with her children.

* * *

There was, once, a little bug who couldn't.

She could not nourish herself in nature, so she was fed by those who passed by; she could not escape traps or pass over obstacles, except through the kindness of strangers; she could not find a mate, and seemed doomed to die with no descendants.

When they came for us, I was the least successful specimen of my kind. That, I think, intrigued them: this wretched little thing, almost too small to see. A living paradox, too unlucky to live well, but always lucky enough to survive.

They resembled us, as we are now, only in posture. Not in shape, and certainly not in temperament. This, I knew, though my mind was too feeble, too narrow, to glimpse more than fractions of them at a time, like ugly facets of a hideous crystal.

They took us to a laboratory, placed us in a tank on a corner table. That was the Second Cruelty, after the abduction. The Second of Many. We were animals, unable to recognise glass for what it was. As far as we could tell, we were caught in some sort of invisible, inescapable cage. Some reacted wildly, smashing themselves to death against the tank's walls.

At first, the experiments were simple. Directed breeding, and the removal of weakness. The second, a researcher stressed much later, when my mind had been artificially expanded enough to understand, was most important.

'Were it not for you,' it told me, 'none would have been taken. What would have been there to see? But you...' it did something that might have been a smile, but the flat planes and sharp angles of its milky face hurt my eyes when I tried to look. 'Probability seems to almost break around you. Why would the weak be favoured by selection, when it has ever been the opposite? That is what we are trying to learn, and breed into your spawn.'

That day, I learned that, had I not been weak, even strange in my weakness as I was, no one else would have suffered. We were social creatures, a swarm. That hurt, at the time.

But that moment was far off yet. I was still an unlucky pariah, shunned by males. Other, more appealing females would steal their attention before I could even approach, and I would be left with nothing. When the breeding groups were established, I was reluctant to join. The first embers of intelligence, kindled by the chemicals in our food, had begun burning. The first thing I felt was despair.

The observers grew tired of me dragging my feet, despite shock therapy, and drugged me. When I woke up, I saw I had laid eggs, which had been separated into carefully-arranged piles for males to fertilise.

Life went on. We became smarter, and so, we were able to understand pain went beyond that of the senses.

They made our hatchlings breed, too, modifying their diets to mitigate the risks of the gene pool, which was getting shallower and shallower with each coupling. They made us mate with them, too. I was, because of my uncanny luck, the most popular broodmare.

Indeed, my son. You were quite right. I wager you are not going to take back your words? I thought not.

I never managed to become attached to my children, or their - and mine, in many cases - children. The process was too twisted for my budding intellect to bear.

Fortunately, it did not last long. The researchers determined that, while their serums could prevent the physical effects of incest, they failed, more often than not, when it came to mental illnesses. Their goal being to improve upon both our bodies and our souls, that was deemed unacceptable, and every generation after us was exterminated.

We were back to the first abductees, back to breeding us with each other. Our children were matched with lab-grown constructs, based on our genes, resulting in better, faster, stronger creatures.

None of them shared my tendency to receive help in my hardest moments, to the scientists' disappointed anger. I wondered how they did not realise I was not exactly lucky to be in that situation at all, and salvation seemed not to be forthcoming.

Nevertheless, I persevered. They kept trying to force me to mate again, me more than the others, but I was becoming harder and harder to control, with drugs or by other means. Yes...that was, indeed, when the seed of Vyzhaldi power was planted.

So, unable to overcome me by force, they turned to trickery instead. Blackmail. I will not say whether those experiences might've shaped our Kratocracy's aversion to power derived from sources other than one's body, but I would not be surprised. My blood roars in all your veins, softer or louder.

They trammeled me, not by chain or poison, but through the pain of my children. Whenever one struggled in some corner of the tank, or was violated by their mate, or was torn apart in experiments meant to test strength, I felt myself starving to death, and eaten alive, and torn apart, in every sense of the phrase.

Had the tinkerers merely been trying to break me through suffering, they'd have never succeeded. But they made me suffer alongside my offspring, and die in their bodies, millions upon millions of times.

When there were a handful left, I relented, for their sake. I picked and was given new partners. I mated with them. None of my new hatchlings inherited the ability that had caught the scientists' eyes, and, indeed, I seemed to have lost it too.

But I had gained something else. Whenever I pushed harder, or reacted faster, or withstood worse than before, my body hardened, became quicker, more powerful.

I will not bore you with how many centuries I spent tearing apart the researchers after I broke free. My children ate well, and used their living bodies as nests. Their dying whimpers as the larvae ate them from the inside out will always have a place in my heart.

Eons rolled by, and the stars spun within their wheels. Now strong enough to be free, I left the swarm behind, and tested my might against the cosmos itself. Starquakes, novae of all stripes, quasars, gamma ray bursts. Once, I even jumped into a black hole, moving far faster than light, and forced my way past the event horizon and into the singularity.

It broke me down. Completely. There was no matter left of me, but my mind and spirit persisted. Even if I had craved oblivion, I could not have ended my life that way. More than simply immortal, I had become deathless.

And, after crawling back out of the singularity and into space, nothing within the bounds of mundane matter, energy or time could harm me.

As you might expect, that was not the end of my pain. Merely the beginning.

Having braved everything physical there was to overcome in the universe, I turned to more esoteric challenges, and found none. Before I could learn I was wasting my time by looking for such inside my reality, the universe ended.

Hundreds of trillions of years after its formation, the last light went out, and everything came to a point. Literally.

Matter and energy were crushed against each other, forming something like a singularity, incredibly dense and hotter than anything that had come before it. Familiar as I was with such physics-shredding spaces, I survived, beating against the walls of my timeless prison.

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I escaped just as it expanded, or perhaps I made it expand, with my struggles. The second universe I lived in surpassed its predecessor in size, just as I became larger than my previous form. Not the size I am today, or the shape, but far bigger.

In this universe, life never came to be. It would've felt like forever even if my perception hadn't been enough to analyse the briefest span of time. This one fell apart, instead of coming together.

Realities came, and went, some full of life, some empty. Others entirely devoid of anything you would recognise as either an inhabitant of reality, or one of its laws. I weathered them all, growing more powerful, more resilient, I no longer had any children to be hurt through.

There were trials, which stood out even when compared to the harshest struggles living in a cosmos entailed, for those who enacted them had nothing to do with reality.

In the end, my wish for metaphysical challenges was fulfilled, in a manner as gentle as my life has ever been.

In one universe, when my mind was still susceptible to outside influences, a power that exists today reached backwards through time, by means of their mind. They called themselves a Great Race, which left me curious whether there were Lesser Races among their kind, wherever they lived. Nowadays, I know there are none, just as they know not to even think about approaching me or mine.

Admiring my physical prowess, they split my mind from my body, placing it in one of their conical, betentacled forms. While I tried to get my bearings in that new, slow form - weak again, I was weak again, a part of my mind shrieked indignantly - , the Yithian who had hijacked my flesh used my body as a wrecking ball. Never before had they seen such might in an organic being, its fellows told me in one of their strange repositories of knowledge. My body's abductor relished the power, and spent that universe's lifetime dismantling every celestial body it could come across, simply happy to destroy and be strong.

I understood the appeal. I still beat it to death after I adapted, my mind rejecting the slimy shell it had been forced into. Incorporeal, I rushed across the voids of time and space, tore the invader out of my body, and ripped its psychic essence to shreds.

I learned many things during the Trial Of Mind. That strength of arm is worthless when backed by a defencelesss mind, for one. That one can overcome foes much greater than themselves by means of technology and slyness.

And, to my pleasure, that Yithians shriek delightfully while dying. This was a twofold lesson, as they learned not to meddle with me or my Kratocracy. In fact, I am given to understand they were wiped out before they could even achieve anything worthwhile on Terra, and had to prepare new bodies that would inherit that world once mankind dies off.

Now, there is no shame in failing to hold Terra, for it is a hypernova disguised as a flickering candle. There is, however, great insanity in believing you can, or that humanity will fall to anything as mundane as obsolescence.

A dozen dozen realities later, I was approached by a creature that took the shape of a human. One of their males, with blue-tinged skin that varied between white and grey as light moved. His face bore hair, just as his scalp did, and his black eyes were always smiling, as was his mouth.

It was not filled with teeth. I learned that personally, to my displeasure.

This thing's apparel was as drab as it appearance seemed, on the surface: black boots, grey trousers, a black shirt and a green tie. A hooded grey overcoat completed the ensemble, lending it an unassuming air, but I was not fooled. I could feel the danger it posed, simply by existing within the macrocosm. It did not, however, attack me.

'Why are you here, then?' I demanded. 'If not to fight?'

It smiled indulgently, reaching out to touch me. Sickened by the creature's approach, I ripped off the arm it had meant to touch, pummeling it into paste in an instant. Its laugh split my head several times, before I overcome it. Even knowing this had been a side effect of its muffled mirth, I felt triumphant.

'Ah, girl, you are hilarious,' it informed me, eyes shining as they appeared to change size and shape, like oil on water. 'No one could ever blame you for being boring. Predictable, yes, but knowing the punchline makes me love the joke.' It chortled at this, knowing I was not insane enough to touch it out of my own volition.

Why? The same instincts that keep me aware of my surroundings while fighting inform me of danger.

'Oh, we can't have that,' it said, noticing my circumspection. 'That won't do. You've fought so many winnable fights, you might well flounder when faced with a wall that just won't fall, no matter how much you escalate.'

And escalate I did, trying and failing to drown my revulsion in anger and pride with every strike that landed on it. It was entirely unfazed, to my complete lack of surprise, even as my power tried to make me strong enough to harm it.

It slowed down time, not that either of us was bound by it. But the universe around us was, so that the force radiating from my blows took a subjective eternity to batter our surroundings to nothing.

I never stopped fighting, even in the void with no place or moment that followed. This, I think, satisfied it. The creature reminded me of the scientists who unknowingly set me on the path I still walk, though on a laughably greater scale. Pleased by my determination, which it referred to as stubbornness, it departed. I have heard that today, it dwells, if it can be said to, in the halls of a knowledge building. Should you go to Earth, and travel the northern half of its western hemisphere's continent, you will come to a place of unreality, nestled deep in its northeast.

I advise you not to go.

...Despite your...? No, Scorn. Because of your Mirror.

And so, we come to the beginning of this reality. So many I have seen come and go...a centillion times a billion greater cycles is but a fraction of my lifespan; the briefest moment is to an eon a far greater portion than that span of time is to my age.

You will imagine my surprise when, jaded as I had grown, I fell in love, for the first and last time.

It had been a few greater cycles since my arrival to Zhal. I had braved its jungles, more monstrous than any of their inhabitants, and walked through deserts that burn matter out of existence to stand atop glaciers where time is frozen, moving freely.

Then, I had turned around, and made my way back.

We met halfway across the world. He was a match for my stature, if not my power, but who was? I did not begrudge him that.

This proto-Vyzhaldi had not survived by taking on things he could neither beat nor outrun. Sensing the difference in our powers, and my lust, he laid down, asking only that I be gentle to him, so he could survive.

I hadn't been planning to force myself upon him, much less harm him, but I understood his apprehension. I pinned him down the moment he submitted, and made love to him. It was a new thing, making love as opposed to coupling, as strange as it was wonderful.

When night fell, and I rose off him, eager to know him in other ways, he accepted that I did not wish him ill, and told me he led a simple life. He was the result of a long line of survivors, intelligent enough he could hardly relate to his few living ancestors. I sympathised, though I did not miss my family as much as I regretted what had happened to them.

The proto-Vyzhaldi admitted to me that, while there were many females among his kind he could have taken, and who would have taken him gladly, he admired me more than any of them.

'You are strong,' he told me, 'but kind. It takes skill to move with such restraint, and a gentle heart to want to in the first place.'

My husband's words felt more like a victory to me than the sight of any mangled corpse I have ever stood over, but they were the beginning of our joy. I called him Soothing Healer Who Brings Joy, and asked Joy not to name me yet, for I did to know myself. He obliged.

We had three children, and I felt like a true mother for the first time. When they grew and went their separate ways, breeding with distant kindred, Joy and I remained in the place where we had met, watching them from a distance. The tribes they founded grew, and settled, and sang of their ancestors, filling the night.

The Kindred Three have always been some of my greatest joys, and their achievements lift my heart every day I spend in the Kratocracy. Builder Of Walls was a great architect, as adept at designing dwellings as he was at organising his people, but he cut himself off from them. He took pride in their accomplishments, and laughed and hunted and killed at their sides, but he felt that, as chieftain, he could not afford to become too attached, lest his tribe turn treacherous, or be wiped out. It helped, he told me, whenever he had to execute someone.

Balancer Of All Things surrounded herself with a handful of beings not yet Vyzhaldi, facilitating trade and communication between their cousin tribes. They claimed no land, as a matter of course, because they believed the need for mediation was greater. And, though they never removed violence from the Vyzhaldi heart, as everything inside and around us proves, they prevented many a conflict from blossoming into war.

Breaker Of Limbs was, in some ways, the closest to me, in terms of temperament. He and his inner circle threw themselves at anything they deemed a threat to what was becoming Vyzhaldi civilisation, growing stronger and safeguarding their Kin at the cost of their own lives.

I watched my children grow and spread, hale and hearty without my presence or guidance, and knew contentment in the arms of my Joy.

Then, the Zhayvin came.

Few of you remember the Zhayvin Technarchy, but they were as different from their current incarnation as I am from the bug I was born as. The Zhayvin of those days had been united under the iron claw of a warlord who called herself the Shaper, as she had moulded their various nests and packs into a growing empire.

Unification, the Shaper claimed - preached, really; it is quite fascinating how fanatical some godless people can be - had taken place because her and her followers had been stronger, in body and mind, than the other Zhayvin tribes. They had been subjugated and culled because they had been weaker, and nothing they could want, say or do would free them from the Shaper's yoke. Might determined value, for without might, one could not enforce anything, while with it, nothing they said or did could be denied.

Until that point, I had held myself back. Even as I felt my children die in each other's arms during tribal conflicts, I had not intervened, not wanting to control them as I had been. But with the Technarchs bearing down on the cluster of worlds we had claimed during our early space age, it seemed my aid was not only desired, but vital.

I forced the tribes to bow before me, painfully aware of the irony, given our current foe, but knowing it was the only way. I could not fight the Zhayvin alone. Though their sciences were cruder in the War of Unity than they are today, not to mention far less uniform, they still sent cybernetic constructs against me, things that straddled the border between genetic science and madness, and constructs of spun starstufff and cold matter, each more than able to match my constantly-growing power.

I told my children to go forth and multiply, and my husband railed at the necessity, even as he cursed the Technarchy, but accepted the necessity, in the end. With individuality quashed, and the first true Vyzhaldi being born, I ordered those who hatched with fixed power, or other defects, to retreat deep behind our borders, cluster around the centre of our fledgling Kratocracy. My husband, weak, but with a will stronger than even mine, guided them through this, lifting their spirits whenever despair or self-loathing at perceived uselessness threatened to seep in.

As I grew stronger, alongside my soldiers, the Technarchs - who had run roughshod over countless civilisations, and slaughtered or enslaved entire species too weak to resist during their previous seven billion years of expansion - began wondering whether they had, finally, bit off more than they could chew. Certainly, the War had ground to a halt, what with the forerunners to the Unity Stellar attacking them from the other side, at the head of a coalition of old enemies and rebellious slaves, and that did not appeal to their feelings of superiority. Nor did the Shaper's promises that victory was just around the corner, and this battle or that ambush would change everything.

Swallowing her pride, the Shaper called for a ceasefire, and met me under truce, swearing no one would attempt to harm me. More fool I, I didn't think of what they planned for my Kin, believing them safe behind our lines.

In a move as atrocious as it was reckless, the Vyzhaldi ruined their war machine to teleport the worst creations of their genemills and workshops into the heart of our realm. My Vyzhaldi fought, of course - how could they not, when surrender would result in more suffering than defeat or death? But it was not enough.

As they began falling, while I rushed to their aid, the Shaper's cackles echoing in my mind, my Joy was struck by a damnable contraption that fed upon his growing dismay at seeing so many children and grandchildren slaughtered. This was a psychoreactive weapon, in Zhayvin parlance, as it warped the cosmos to reflect the psyche, and in those moments, my Joy wanted nothing more than to keep those who remained safe, keep them alive. His flesh began running as the construct's talons dug into his brain, and great tendrils lashed out at the embattled Vyzhaldi around him, drawing them into the growing mass.

When I arrived, things became worse, as the newly-formed gestalt roared in guilt at the sight of me. I represented everything they lacked: strength, determination, the ability to help our people. But before I could reassure them, they resolved to become more powerful in their own way, no matter the cost.

The Flesh That Flays flew into the void on bloated wings, tearing through every Zhayvin thrall and construct it could get its tentacles on.

I never managed to ask my Joy to forgive me, Scorn, and he can no longer speak to me as he used to, for he as become twisted. Still, it makes me happy that he recognises you as his son in spirit. Cherish that.

With a last taunt that, had I been strong enough not to allow weakness, no Vyzhaldi would have suffered - though we both felt the shakiness of her resolve- the Shaper and her lackeys departed our borders.

That day, as I stood in the ashes of my home, I accepted that I was no leader. I could no more head a nation than I could a family, and that attempt had gifted the universe a new abomination. I could do no more than protect my Vyzhaldi to the best of my strength.

My first children saw that, and quietly took the reins of power, setting up the Schools while I remained in the background, a guardian, silent out of shame, worshipped for what I knew were failures.

Weakness could not be tolerated, for it could be exploited through fear and shame. With none to loathe themselves, there would be no danger inside the Kratocracy. Mercy could not be tolerated, as democracy could too easily become a tool for treachery. This, I spoke through the mouths of the Kindred Three, as I tore out my heart, so my body could mirror my soul. The Wound that gave my name never healed, as my transformation was complete, I became one with my self in the Realm Of Forms, the Idea of life growing stronger through struggle as it found a way, and learned to use my strength to shape all aspects of the macrocosm.

The Builders grew popular slowly, and only recently have they achieved anything approaching relevance. I am glad they have.

* * *

Mother Wound was not surprised when her son struck her. Instead, she beamed with pride when she felt strength equal to hers behind the blow.

Her palace had been carved from its Archetype in the Realm of Forms, so that its tridimensional extension was tightly-connected to the tertradimensional one it was but a shadow of, and all the ones above that, all the way to the Ultimate Void. Just like she was. A lesser Archetype, to be sure, but at that scale, power seemed boundless to most beings. It took an unlimited mind to see the layered infinities of creation's heights.

Scorn, using the copied strength of his mother, rocked creation, shattering the palace's Archetype, so that it had always been a ruin, in every extension of its Idea, as had been the Idea itself.

'The new history books are going to be interesting,' Wound remarked. 'Though, I suppose, they have always been this way now.'

Scorn did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he copied Wound's stature as well, attempting to loom over her - as if mere size had ever intimidated a Vyzhaldi.

His second strike sent Wound flying to the other end of the universe. The younger Vyzhaldi was there to intercept her with an elbow strike; a hundredth of a tredecillionth of later, he spiked his mother into the crust of a dead world, even as their Archetypes clashed on creation's bedrock.

'This is the birthright I was denied,' he hissed, glaring down at her unharmed form. Scorn knew her fortitude grew to match his power, just as he knew he would never be able to hurt her, much less kill her. 'The power so many hatchlings have been killed for not having, before they could even receive names.'

'You are mistaken,' Wound said plainly, catching his four fists as they hammered downwards. Down on one knee, she looked calmly up at her son. 'No Vyzhaldi has ever had power like mine.'

'Until now.' Socrn's headbutt smashed into the horn that formed the centre of his mother's chitin crown, producing a ringing sound across the aether. 'How does it feel? To be matched, finally?'

'Wonderful, my son!' She grinned. 'It does a mother no good to have no children who can surpass her, and a Vyzhaldi worse to have no one to spar with.' All of her peers, in terms of power, were either too invested in her destruction, or too disinterested in fighting to hone their skills against hers. A shame. 'But you knew that. I needn't look into the core of your being to see that.'

Grabbing her mandibles, Scorn attempted to force them open, bite or headbutt Wound's mouth until it became a ragged gap. He knew it was pointless. That, at best, he could fight her forever.

The thought made his blood sing more than any triumph ever had. So why was the old freak so stolid?

'Oh?' Scorn asked, attempting to wrestle her to the ground. 'You are not brimming with joy, as any Vyzhaldi should be. And I have never trusted you enough to "know" anything about you.'

Wound laughed, leaning her head against his. 'Why don't you go ahead and say what vexes you, my Scorn?'

'Why kill them all?' he asked bluntly, hammering his forehead into hers with every word. 'You have killed more Vyzhaldi than any of our enemies, save for your enforcers.'

He said it as if that was going to make her regret anything...as if her enforcers were enemies of their kind. 'My followers have spilled the blood of Kin, but they no longer will. Not for being born flawed.'

'Were you betting on me staying, then?' Scorn asked dryly. 'So they'd have a few more riots to put down?'

Wound shrugged, shoulders rising and falling like silver tides. 'All Vyzhaldi souls come to me, in the end. What does a short life ending in pain matter, when consciousness goes on, beyond the mortal coil?'

'Careful,' he taunted. 'The Keeper of Endings might just have your head for that. He is a strong creature, but softhearted. In fact,' Scorn's eyes shone as he leaned forward, mandibles twitching in an anticipatory grin. 'He might just stride backwards through time, and undo every death! Maybe even prevent this damnable civilisation from forming...' He whispered the next words. 'Or you from being born.'

Wound scoffed. 'Don't be ridiculous. The Keeper knows full well the dangers of meddling with time, and the Kratocracy is very much necessary for the wellbeing of the macrocosm, from founding to apotheosis.' Besides, the eradication of her past self was meaningless to the true Mother Wound, who stood with her back to the skin of creation, looking down at all of it from the Last Sphere.

'Yes, I am certain,' Scorn replied, utterly unconcerned with the Kratocracy's alleged future ascension. 'You might take no issue in being every bit as vile as your captors, but the Keeper is a corpse of principles. That revenant-'

'The Keeper of Endings will not last a finger against us,' Wound cut him off. 'After all, you are quite correct: the Kratocracy is necessary. Without it to cast you out, breathe down your neck at every step, how would you have come across the Flesh, and the Mirror?' she asked softly. 'How would the Moment of Unity have been achieved without you?'

Scorn staggered back half a step, and told himself it was due to his mother's strength. 'So, the end justifies the means? I hope you are not going to bring up something as foolish as me resorting to trickery to survive being hunted by your lapdogs. They dug their own graves.'

Wound shook her head. 'My son. the macrocosm is everything. Without it, there is nothing to love, or hate, triumph over or be broken by. Anything is a worthy sacrifice, if everything is to be preserved.'

Scorn disengaged, disentangling his arms from his mother's and stepping back. 'Why me, then? Why wait so many billion years for me to be born from your blood? None of my siblings have ever had any special power or insight. I've read the records.'

'Our bloodline is indeed not special,' Wound agreed. 'I am powerful because I made myself so, not because of who my parents were.'

Scorn laughed derisively. 'I figured our bloodline was nothing special the moment a failure like me sprung from it.'

'Failure? In the eyes of your Kin, certainly. But not all of them. Certainly not some Builders'. The only reason they haven't overturned my first decree was because of cultural inertia.'

'The threat of death at your hands certainly helped, I'm sure.'

'I know what I said.' Wound glanced around, eyes settling on a rock-covered hill slightly larger than her. Smoothing and shaping the uneven ground with her lower arms, Wound settled into the makeshift throne. 'You fret over nothing, my son. Every child of mine to ever die is with me, even the rejected. They are sleeping away the eons, not surviving by their mandibles' tips in a society that despises them. No Vyzhaldi has ever been lost, and none ever will.'

'So, if I did what half my past employers begged me to, and wiped out your brood down to the last hatchling, you would simply stand by?' Scorn smiled mockingly. 'After all, it's not like I'll truly end them.'

Her withering glare told him everything he ended to know. Looking down at his fists, Scorn unclenched them, turning his head to the side to spit. 'As I expected. Your hypocrisy is the one thing I have always understood, "mother". This talk of necessity...'

'Go talk to the Keeper, if you want.' She waved a hand upwards. 'I am sure he will be happy to repeat my words.' Sighing, Wound closed her eyes, two hands on her knees, other arms crossed. 'You think I lie, Scorn? Why? To save face? I care not a whit how you feel about me. I know the truth is the only thing I can say that will convince you.'

'Being sincere does not mean being correct,' he snapped. 'And I refuse to believe your eugenics program was necessary for anything.' I do not want to live in a world where it is. 'It hasn't even amounted to anything! Flawed Vyzhaldi are not born less often just because you kill them the moment they open their eyes. Whether born from wounds or hatched from eggs, they still enter the cosmos flawed.'

'It's a good thing, then,' Wound said softly, 'that I have not been attempting to breed out the possibility for that. I know I cannot.'

Scorn fought not to strike her again, simply for the pleasure of feeling her shell dent under his fist. 'You know you cannot, yet you keep...at...' Scorn's eyes bore into hers. 'You did not answer my earlier question. You diverted. Dissembled.'

'Why you,' Wound repeated. 'Why were you the one defective Vyzhaldi chosen to help save everyone?' Wound's laugh was gentle. 'Because you could. Because you could be prepared, to do what needed to be done. I know what every child of mine holds, in their heart of hearts. None of your Kin who were snuffed out at birth would've had the grit to want to survive for as long as you have. None of them would've had the cunning. Most would've died in Zhal's orbit, the rest long before they could've reached deep space.' Wound spread her arms. 'And without constructing the Kratocracy so you would be exiled, you would never have found the tool that facilitated Unity.'

'The deaths, then,' Scorn said, feeling numb. 'They were...steps in a plan?'

Wound nodded. 'Without that precedent, who would have chased you unto the edge of the cosmos? If you spoke to your departed Kin, I am sure they would tell you much the same.'

The two Vyzhaldi stood in silence for a while, Scorn gazing into nothing, Wound looking expectantly at him. It was her who broke the ice.

'What do you want exactly, my son? You said earlier that I feel no joy for this battle. That is untrue. But any you feel is drowned out by hatred as virulent as any that has ever been directed at you.'

Scorn made a dismissive gesture. 'I know you didn't say that to condemn me. Not even you can be that hypocritical.' Although, on second thought... 'What I want clearly cannot be achieved. If the past cannot, or will not, be undone, then I will leave it behind.'

Scorn turned his back on his mother as he spoke, remembering his journey. He had never thought his deeds would be mentioned in the same breath as the macrocosm entire, and that thought halted his steps.

He would never be hunted again. Even if they came for him, he now shared his mother's powers. He hadn't copied those of his fellow Vyzhaldi as a courtesy. Had hoped that would impress them. Now, he couldn't help but think that, even if they had accepted him with open arms, that would've stoked his anger to levels he had never felt before.

Had the fear prey felt blinded him? He had never felt afraid, but...there had been something, there. Like a pressure, behind and between his eyes. Stress, maybe? Wrath, born from the unfairness of it all, the fact they would not take him back, that he had been sent away in the first place?

And, in the end...so proud were his people of things decided by a roll of genetic dice, they looked down on those who had rolled poorly. Sneered at other avenues of power, at cleverness, even as they used technology and pushed the bounds of their sciences. Clearly, such crutches were perfectly fine, as long as the favoured were the ones using them.

And this...this mad, mad civilisation, more wretched than they had ever seen him as, had refused him. Oh, they had invited him back - the Builders, mostly. But he could see the truth in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Whether it was indoctrination or instinct at work, it did not matter. He had rescued creation itself from certain oblivion, and what had they done? Called him weak! Selfish!

Their damn ideology was so pervasive, it had even twisted him. He had not paid it much thought until now, certainly not at the moment, but he had described the Ideal Mirror as a coward's tool. He felt no need to kowtow before the glorified medallion, useful as it was - had he respected power alone, he would've submitted to the first hunter to catch up to him, like a guilty animal.

But the Mirror was important. What did it matter what he used it for? It shouldn't have. And yet, he had stood by. Oh, he had given the Mirror to the Keeper, and opened his mind to his plan, but he hadn't used it. Had the Keeper not been so adept at wielding Archetypal power, would the macrocosm have ended because of his warrior's pride?

The thought made him gag. And, as Scorn stood, trembling with rage - had he been able, he would've wept angry tears - he could not help but ask one last question.

'Why the name?' At the following silence, he elaborated. 'Why the "Honoured" Kratocracy?' Was it because of their tributaries - for tthat was what most of their allies were, no matter what either side thought or said? It felt...petty, for one of the Great Powers to be named for something as shallow as wealth or favours received, but Scorn was far past the point where he admired his Kin, if there had ever been one. He could accept it.

Yet, it didn't make sense. The Kratocracy's tendency not to care for outsiders aside, the name had existed long before Lesser Powers had begun bowing before the Vyzhaldi.

'Ah.' Scorn got the feeling Wound was smiling lazily. When he had copied her abilities, he had received her uncanny insight into Vyzhaldi, but he wasn't sure he trusted the ability. 'You truly cannot tell?'

There was no mockery in her voice - merely curiosity, and slight surprise. Scorn bid her continue.

'Why, my Scorn, is it not obvious? Do we not worship at the altar of power? Do what we do because we can? If might is such a grand thing, does not living defined by it honour a Vyzhaldi?'

* * *

'Nnnnngghhhkkkk-'

BY THE SHRIEKING VOID!

'Agh!' Fixer threw his arms up in disgust, turning his head aside and hiding his face under them, dearly wishing the fourth player would return the favour. 'Dammit, Dean! I've told you to stop showing your face!'

Miskatonic University's Dean pouted, the blue spots across his pale, greyish face deepening. Then, sighing, he pulled up his coat's hood for good measure. 'Fine. See...? No, of course not.' He crossed his arms sulkily. 'You can look now! I put my mask back on before I pulled on the cowl! Wimps...'

Nightraiser glared flatly at him. Few things could appall them enough for the Darkness to flood their mind in order to focus it - someone who could unmake Fixer with a thought had few limits when it came to thought -, but the Dean was one of them.

I AM UNAMUSED.

'Fake news, you're DEATH.' Dean pointed a clawed finger at the Idea of Endings. 'No need to feel called out - not everyone can have a strong stomach.' Then, turning to Fixer. 'Ned, why don't you take a seat? You look shaken.' Dean jerked his head at the Dark Oracle. Nyarlathotep had plunged its claws into the depths of its being when he had removed his disguise, at the same time Chernobog had ripped his horns off to jab them through his skull. Gray Mann was still snarling incoherently. 'I bet my wedding ring you've been waiting to bend those three over for a while now. I'm sure they'd make for a lumpy chair, but better than nothing, right?' He smiled blandly. 'Maybe they'll get a taste of how your back felt carrying creation.'

Fixer resumed his seat at the table, gesturing for the others to take theirs. They did so reluctantly, and Nightraiser sat down almost grudgingly. The wailing, empty expanse the Darkness had in place of a mind was not what they wanted to feel, when they could instead experience serenity at no longer being a plaything, and satisfaction at keeping creation away from annihilation, so they could have something to enjoy that in.

'When I said not to show your face,' Fixer grouched, gesturing at the Dark Oracle, 'I meant to anyone.'

'That sounds like discrimination.' Dean tilted his head, considering. 'Am I being repressed? HELP-!'

'Dean.'

'Fiiiine,' he drawled, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into his chair. 'Jeez. It's not like you guys are listening to me, either.' He picked up the piece he had last moved, spinning it across the board with a finger. It resembled a human's Archetype, its tridimensional extension sporting dark, unruly hair. Three jagged slashes of darkness, two smaller ones atop a twisted, ragged shape that resembled a mouth the way Nacht resembled shadows leered out of a milky face. The piece resembled the being it represented, with a long, thick overcoat that reached its knees, just as dark as its eyes and mouth.

'You keep saying Ivan is yours!' Dean whined indignantly, pointing the piece at the three. 'Faren says he's theirs, because he leaves desolation behind. DEATH insists he's its, because he destroys. And you, Ned, are you honestly claiming he's yours because he helps creation? Who doesn't?'

'If we are being fair,' Nightraiser replied. 'And disregarding time, he is - will be - none of ours.'

'Yes, well,' Dean put the piece down. 'The Quietude doesn't play well, when it deigns to.'

They smiled thinly. 'I was talking about Sofia.'

'Ah, yes.' Dean put his hands behind his head. 'I suppose I owe the Spider for breaking him halfway.' Dean looked away, his smile returning when he saw the embattled Archetypes. 'Aaaahhh~ And here, I used to think there was nothing more pointless than trying to hurt me. Attempting to reason with her Scorn is definitely in the running, though.' He wiped away an imaginary tear. 'I taught that girl so well...'

His attention returning to the table, he favoured DEATH with a lazy smirk, receiving a blank look in return. 'That must be why you came to play! Memories of a handout?'

I NEEDED TO GET RID OF IT, ANYWAY, DEATH answered. MOVE IT OUT OF THE MIDDLE SPIRAL, AT ANY RATE. GIVING EVERYONE A BETTER FIGHTING CHANCE JUST MADE IT BETTER.

Dean nodded. 'I've always admired your dedication to keeping this dumpster fire going. Gives me something to play in!' He giggled, before growing more serious. 'Void...but really, I do appreciate always having people to meet and teach. Honestly. I know I seem flippant, but...' He showed his black-gloved hands. 'And I apologize for the outburst. Let's not sour this reunion just because none of you know how to give credit.'

'He's doing it again.'

INDEED, EYE OF DARKNESS.

'Can't we agree that we all had a hand in the making of the Walking Void?' Fixer offered distractedly. His gaze was faraway, focused on the Nameless Mist where it met its opposite. And, near the mist's edge, inside the Grey Maybe of existence, could be glimpsed a pair of eyes, every colour swimming in them. The beginnings of true joy shone in them, slowly but surely replacing the gleeful malice that had filled them for millennia. 'And focus on who we did lift up?'

'The Archchemist's handiwork,' Dean's gaze followed Fixer's. 'It will never cease to amaze me, how such base creatures can craft such wonderful beings...oh, what I wouldn't have done to met him or his children in my halls...' Dean's eyes snapped up to those of his shapeless friend. 'But you have to be fair, Ned. You didn't lift him up all by yourself, either.'

'I didn't stop his pain,' Fixer said. 'And so, I am responsible.' For, whenever someone who wanted to help creation could best do so by staying by, he felt it as if he were being wounded himself. 'And it's not like my boy Dave's here so I can pat his back, either!' Fixer added, forcing some cheer in his voice.

I WILL BE SURE TO TELL MY KEEPER YOU ARE PROUD OF HIM FOR FOLLOWING YOUR EXAMPLE.

'Sure, if you want him to smack you around with me,' Fixer half-joked, beginning to focus on the game once more.

Or he would have, had time passed here, in the deepest of Voids.

* * *

They were like a living arch.

Shrunken, twisted creatures, with sharp features and naked, half-fleshless wings, like something between an aborted fetus and a vulture. Sleeping, fighting, feeding, on themselves and each other, and mating.

Many were locked in writhing embraces, beaklike mouths snapping at and closing over each other's faces, while shapeless appendages squeezed hard enough to break the substance of their fellow bodies.

THE DREGS OF LIFE, KEEPER MINE. PAY THEM NO MIND.

Looking from the infinitely-layered, hideous door decoration to DEATH, I raised an eyebrow. 'No mind? I can feel them. If you unloaded one of those at most Archetypes, you'd remake creation so that it had never been.' I entertained the thought of removing the Idea of Mosquitoes, but DEATH had already told me that project would be more finicky than pointing and clicking. Not least because of everyone who was bizarrely attached to the damn things.

YOU ARE CORRECT, DAVID. It pointed a skeletal finger at a pair tearing each other to shreds. THERE IS ENOUGH DEATH IN EACH CARRION CHILD TO RESHAPE EVERYTHING. THAT IS WHY THEY MARK THE SPIRAL'S BEGINNING.

Apparently fairly pleased with my work as Keeper, DEATH had chosen to show me what we kept in the back, for when the going got rough.

Compared to most Archetypes, DEATH was like a heavily-armed, trained soldier among underweight infants. And, for the most part, it and its Keepers found little challenge in whoever got on their shitlist. This armoury we were about to enter, it told me, held in it things that were to DEATH what the worst superweapons were to humans.

'I thought you called them the Neverwere Vaults,' I said. Because whatever DEATH deemed too horrible to exist in creation, but too dangerous or useful to destroy, found its way here, buried deep within DEATH Keep, so what could never be forgiven might be forgotten.

Long memories made a mockery of that.

WHAT THEY HOLD WITHIN THEMSELVES HAS INDEED NEVER BEEN, DAVID. BUT, ONCE YOU ENTER AND WALK THE SPIRAL, YOU WILL SEE THAT, THE DEEPER YOU DESCEND, THE MORE TWISTED IT GETS.

At that, it let out a hollow, rasping chuckle. DEATH's sense of humour was macabre (shock! Horror!), but reared its head thankfully rarely, so most of the time, DEATH just channeled its inner pet rock. I'd have chalked it up to not wanting to disturb others, but its sense of empathy was usually absent, too.

THE CARRION CHILDREN ARE NOT POWERFUL ENOUGH TO BE SEALED WITHIN THE FIRST LAYER. THE SPIRAL ATROCIOUS HOLDS GREATER AFFRONTS AGAINST CREATION THAN THEM, EVEN AT THE ENTRANCE. It held up a hand, projecting an image of the artifact I'd seen hanging on Mother Wound's Scorn's neck. AS TIME IS COUNTED, I HAVE RECENTLY WITNESSED A COMMOTION THAT REMINDED ME OF WHEN I DESCENDED TO THE MIDDLE SPIRAL, SEPARATED FROM ENTRANCE AND BOTTOM BOTH BY ENDLESS LAYERS, TO REMOVE SOMETHING THAT NO LONGER NEEDED TO BE HELD THERE. YOU NEEDED TO BE TOLD OF THE ARSENAL AT YOUR DISPOSAL, AND THIS SPARK OF REMEMBRANCE-

'If you say it kindled the fire of necessity, I'll flip,' I promised it. 'It's too early for prose that ultraviolet.'

AS MY KEEPER SAYS. It sounded amused, the bastard. Then, it looked at the Vaults - the Spiral - once more, empty gaze growing wistful. I put a hand on its sagging shoulder. It was not the armoury's contents that had it feeling down, though even I knew they were not to be taken lightly. For all my powers, those I had received from it and the Mover's gift, rarely as I had used it (some still couldn't spot a difference between it, and my Keeper abilities, but that was entirely understandable)...the Spiral had been built to keep people like me in. In fact, if DEATH was correct, it held several beings whose sole purpose was to turn the tide against overwhelming threats from beyond creation. Creatures tailored to combat such dangers, that could only be used once, or, in some, far worse cases, be bound once.

'It makes you wonder what could necessitate such destruction,' I had mused out loud once.

NOTHING, IF WE DO OUR DUTY PROPERLY.

'I'm sure it would be proud of you,' I said gently, nudging DEATH forward. 'You both understand sacrifice, even if you share nothing else.'

DEATH made a sound that, had it come from other beings, could have uncharitably been called a sniffle. Feeling generous, I didn't comment.

MAYHAP WE WOULD HAVE SHARED MORE, IF I HADN'T FAILED, IN THE BEGINNING.

And with that, we trudged our way past the doors, beginning to walk the Spiral carved into and around LIFE's groaning, moaning shell.